 | Dear readers, I’m not sure where I’m headed |
When I was in college, I had a creative writing class. It was a small class, less than 20 of us, and we met in one of the cool nationality rooms at Pitt. The professor’s last name was Hall, and I enjoyed her and the class tremendously. I don’t claim to have had a special connection with her, but I can tell you that she made me feel special. She always had not only good things to say about my writing, but she had encouraging things to say.
Sure, maybe that was just her style, and she told everyone that they should submit writing to contests. Maybe she suggested everyone contact the local radio station, WYEP, to fill a spot reading their poetry. All I know is that she gave me confidence in my work to do those things because she convinced me she believed in me, so why shouldn’t I believe in myself? One thing stands out though. When she opened up a Red Rose Tea box, and picked out the glazed ceramic animal figures, I doubt she thought of every student she had. As she picked up a peregrine falcon piece, she remembered a short story I wrote that included the falcons. She gave me that figurine at the end of the semester and I still have it and remember what it symbolizes. 
It might have been something simple and small to her, but beyond the fact that I already enjoyed collecting the figures, I was filled with joy to be receiving something back. She didn’t just read my short story, she remembered it enough to be inspired. THAT is what I would live for as a writer. Affecting people by simply expressing my thoughts would fill me with such life.
I attribute that class to a lot of my desire to write, or even blog at all. I never won any of those contests. WYEP said they wanted established poets who were published. For some reason though, none of that felt like rejection. It felt like satisfaction. Sometimes, I yearn for that unique feeling. To be so filled with joy, that rejection rings in a sense of completion rather than discouragement.
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